


taste the feeling of a fevered soul

by sleepylouis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Sad, Song Based, artist!louis, does this make sense, i hate tagging stuff, ocean idk, too many parenthesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:05:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepylouis/pseuds/sleepylouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis searches for the meaning of infinity and instead finds a boy with curly hair and eyes brighter than the sun.</p><p>(or the one where louis is an artist stuck in a word of gray and harry just wants louis to be happy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	taste the feeling of a fevered soul

**Author's Note:**

> excuse the excess of angst but i kinda wanted to do a poetry-like fic and it turned into this pls
> 
> dedicated to the lovely hanners because shes my favorite aussie bogan drip ever and i love love love her

louis sees the world in gray.

 

_(he feels gray, he sees gray, he breathes gray.)_

 

louis loves the sea.

 

_(he loves the sea, but it is merciless and unfeeling and the sea does not love him.)_

 

louis is cripplingly sad.

 

_(he is blank and empty like the coastline he lives on.)_

 

louis is alone.

 

_(he has no one but a palette and a canvas.)_

louis is afraid.

 

_(he does not want to be forgotten.)_

louis tomlinson is an artist. he is an artist living in a world of gray.

 

sometimes he finds humor in the irony of it all. sometimes he thinks it's a bit beautiful. a metaphor of some sorts. but mostly louis is empty. he always is.

 

of course, louis can physically see colors, but that's not the point. his mind is colorblind. his mind is poisoned. his mind is gray. and louis--louis is always afraid.

 

_(an artist without color is like a writer without words.)_

 

louis wakes up in his cabin by the sea and he smells the salt in the cool morning air and feels the wind on his face and the water at his feet and sometimes he thinks he's alive. sometimes louis is thankful for being here. but mostly louis wishes he could drift away. he always does.

 

_(the sea is infinity and louis is empty time.)_

_-_

louis loves to paint.

 

_(maybe he finds his colors outside of himself.)_

 

he loves the feeling of his brush on the canvas and the streaks of gray left in his wake. he loves the sensation of creating--it's so much more empowering than destroying. louis can make beauty with a brush, he can recreate the essence of grace, he can reinvent the meaning of lovely.

 

except when louis is finished, when he can do no more, he sees nothing.

 

_(louis hates his art. he hates every last single thing he's ever painted.)_

 

louis expects to see blooming reds and flourishes of gold and whispers of silver but he sees _gray gray gray_. he sees failure and disappointment and sadness and he absolutely hates it.

 

louis cries angry tears and breaks his easel and throws his palette. he splatters the walls in _gray_ _gray gray._ louis is drowning in this world of dead color.

 

_(louis throws his art to the sea and hopes infinity catches it.)_

he sits on the shore and watches his paintings bleed into the ocean and all the while he wonders what he's doing with his life.

louis is killing time.

 

_(and time is killing him.)_

he is obsessed with the idea of being _remembered._ he wants to do great and see great happen. he wants to create an immortality after death. he wants the name _louis tomlinson_ to live on long past his body.

 

there have been billions of people before louis, and how many can he name off the top of his head? the list is depressingly short.

 

people die and people are forgotten and louis refuses to be one of them.

_(louis is haunted by the vastness of eternity.)_

so he creates to be remembered. louis' art is his legacy. his art is his immortality. his art is his handprint upon the earth.

 

but louis' art is gray. he is gray. his world is gray. and gray is _forgotten._

_(louis throws his legacy to sea and hopes infinity catches it.)_

_-_

 

louis is so  _upset._

 

he's just ditched another piece and he's so frustrated with failure. louis screams and tears at his hair and smashes his bedroom and _cries cries cries_.

 

_(everything is gray and his art is forgettable and louis wants nothing more than to sink down to the bottom of the ocean with infinity.)_

so he paints the beach.

 

he grabs the bottle labeled _red_ and heads out to the shoreline. it's a dreary, cold day--the bitter wind whips at his face with its winter-laced arms. the coolness feels good against louis' hot tear-stained cheeks though, and he breathes it in.

 

 he feels _alive_.

_(except he's not. everything is gray and louis is drowning.)_

 

he finds an empty spot a mile away and begins.

 

louis squirts the paint onto the sand and uses water from the nearby sea to dilute it. the red crawls outward, blossoming like a spring flower and louis laughs manically, overwhelmingly thrilled with himself.

 

_(he's using the beach as his canvas and the world as his muse and infinity as his backdrop.)_

louis is there for hours, making bleeding red flowers on the sand. the sun is hanging low in the sky before he finally runs out of paint and beach but that's okay, it really is, because louis has made a handprint on the earth. not a lasting one. but a handprint all the same.

louis throws the empty bottle to the side and lays in the paint and lets it stain his skin. louis imagines the red to feel like fire--he makes it burn. if he can't see the color, louis will feel it.

_(ashes ashes, we all burn down.)_

 

louis falls asleep in a field of flames.

 

-      

 

the first painting shows up at his doorstep in the middle of september.

 

louis is going for his daily walk and he nearly trips over the thing. it's soggy and smeared with paint--almost bleached white--but it's there and louis doesn't know why. he picks it up and sees his signature scribbled in the corner and frowns.

 

this was the painting he did earlier in the summer. he named it _Valletta_.

 

it was the closest he'd ever been to being happy with a piece, but it still wasn't good enough. louis still found flaws amongst the suffocating gray, and it joined the rest of his art to die in the ocean.

_(except it survived.)_

 

louis turns over the piece and sees a note clipped to the back. he stares at it for a minute, unsure if this is some kind of joke because no one is allowed to see his art. he's trashed it all before another set of eyes could see his failures.

 

_must've been lovely before it ended up in the ocean- h_

louis crumples up the note written in pretty penmanship and throws it to the side. the destroyed painting joins it.

 

he tries to act like the whole thing doesn't perplex him.

_(but it does.)_

_-_

 

the idea louis has for his next piece is brilliant really.

 

he is sitting on his floor nibbling day-old bread and pondering creation in general. he thinks about human-made art and nature-made art and the fusion of the two. the human-nature relationship is boundless and infinitely fascinating—and this is where louis finds inspiration.

 

louis pulls out a notebook and begins jotting down ideas. the first column says what is rain?

_(rain is the way the sky cries. rain is emotion. rain is sadness.)_

louis grins, actually smiles, and grabs a canvas before darting outside with his paint set. it’s raining outside, matter of fact, and cold and louis has no shirt on and he’s absolutely freezing—but louis is feeling optimistically inspired.

 

_(louis thinks that maybe all artists are a bit mad.)_

 

it's bitterly cold outside--the freezing wetness is pelting his exposed skin--but louis is on the beach and he's painting. so yeah, he's maybe a bit out of his mind.

 

_(but aren't we all?)_

 

louis smears blue on the canvas and steps back to let nature do the rest of the work.

 

the rain makes electric blue streaks down the canvas in thin pathways. almost like tear-tracks. the perfect blend between nature and man.

 

he could get the same effect by hand, louis knows that, but the whole idea that the rain painted his piece embodies the whole meaning. louis created beauty by honing nature, and that in itself turns this simple canvas into the best piece louis has ever done.

 

he names it _halcyon_.

 

-

 

louis is sitting inside watching the sea when he sees _him_.

 

louis knows he has neighbors somewhere in the trees, but he's never been social enough to try and meet them. he isn't exactly a people's person-- _louis cuts himself off from human interaction._ it's been three years since he last contacted his best mates, zayn and niall. it's been three years since he laid eyes on his parents. it's been three years since he heard his sisters laugh. he tries to act like he doesn't miss them.

_(but he does.)_

the boy is tall and shirtless and so _pale--_ his skin is like ivory.

 

louis watches him throw his shirt to the side. he steps into the freezing ocean gently, with this grace louis doesn't understand. he is long and lean and sculpted. he is the essence of art.

 

his body is covered in tattoos and louis finds that so interesting--he's always loved the idea of tattoos. he wonders if the boy has a meaning for all of them.

 

_(the boy dives into infinity and louis is empty time.)_

-     

 

the next painting comes a week later.

 

this time louis finds his art hanging on his door. he pulls it down slowly, his heart racing and his mind running at a million miles per minute. like the last one, it's badly damaged and hardly recognizable, but there is the tell-tale signature in the bottom and louis knows it's his.

 

again, there is a note.

 

_I loved the red-painted beach. Brilliant, really- h_

louis stares at the words for a long time, all the while trying to figure out what kind of game this is. he doesn't know if he's flattered but he knows he definitely is perplexed.

 

this time, louis keeps the note.

 

_(he likes the handwriting.)_

 

-

 

 

so summer bleeds into fall. louis paints. he throws his art to the waves, to infinity. he cries a lot. he wishes he was anything but gray.

 

_(it is fall and everything is dead and louis wishes he was too.)_

louis paints himself. he paints himself in brilliant reds and golds and yellows and oranges. he looks into the mirror and stares at the blue eyes peeking out from under the colors. he sees gray.

 

louis is not beautiful. louis cannot make himself beautiful.

_(louis is a product of failure.)_

-

  _(it's fall and everything is dead and louis cant't control himself anymore.)_

harry styles finds louis face down in the sand and non-responsive.

 

he kind of maybe _panics_ because louis is not moving or really breathing and all he can think is _no no no._ this is louis, the artist who sees beauty in everything but himself. this is louis, who's always been painfully sad and empty. this is louis, who can't give up because he isn't ready to leave, not yet, not now.

 

he searches for a pulse and it's there, light and fluttering but _there._

louis is alive but he looks so pale and sad and empty. he looks worn and gray and burnt out and _tired._

harry picks him up and takes him home.

 

-

 the first thing louis is aware of is a pair of eyes watching him. 

 

_(louis wakes up and he really wishes he didn't.)_

he's in a bed that isn't his and there's a pair of green eyes watching him that he doesn't know. he feels like absolute shit but he's warm and kind of comfortable and not _alone._

there's a hand reaching forward and brushing louis' hair off his forehead and he should move back from the touch, but it's light and oddly comforting. louis feels foolishly small and painfully vulnerable but not _alone._

"you're wonderful," the boy whispers, staring down at louis. "i don't want you to leave without knowing that."

 

louis is not wonderful, but there's a pair of pretty pink lips telling him he is.

 

_(louis doesn't know what to think.)_

"you're the boy on the beach," louis mumbles. "you're the boy with the ivory skin and the messy curls and the art splattered across his chest."

 

"yeah," he laughs softly, "yeah, i am. but you can call me harry."

 

-

 

harry doesn't let him leave.

 

louis wants to go home and sleep or maybe paint but harry tells him he can't. harry tells him to stay for breakfast which turns into lunch and eventually dinner and louis _really_ should be getting home. harry doesn't let him.

 

he talks to louis nonstop. he tells him about his mother and his sister and his best friend liam and louis listens and all the while thinks how lovely harry is. he is bright and infectious and lovely and louis is not.

 

_(but harry thinks he is.)_

_-_

_"_ louis, what were you trying to do?"

 

the question is posed late at night. louis is curled on harry's bed and harry is lying on the floor, moonlight slanting in on his bare chest.

 

louis knows what he's talking about, but he doesn't know how to answer.

 

"i want to be infinity," louis answers. "and i am nothing."

 

"that's not true," harry says softly. "you're here and that's something."

_(but it's not.)_

_-_

harry visits him everyday.

 

louis doesn't need supervision all the time-- _he isn't sick--_ he's just sad a lot. and sometimes he does things he regrets but that's because he is gray and he wants to be brilliant red or lively gold. he wants to be extraordinary.

 

_(harry tells him he's beautiful.)_

the first time he does, louis feels as if he's swallowed a load of seawater. he tries to find air, to find a _thought_ but he can't because he's drowning. but not the bad kind of drowning. not the kind of drowning louis usually feels.

 

_(it's the kind of drowning that makes him want to fight for air.)_

_-_

 

fall passes in a flourish of color.

 

_(and harryandlouis.)_

 

they spend lots of time together doing silly, mindless stuff. they watch films on louis' cracked tv or go for a swim or a walk or just paint. harry isn't much of an artist--he'd rather watch louis--but sometimes he dabbles in the colors and free paints.

 

"louis," harry asks one afternoon. he's sprawled on the sofa, eyes glued on louis' slender fingers as they work. "why do you throw away so much of your art?"

 

harry's already confessed to being the one who salvaged all of louis' wrecked artwork and louis just shrugged and said he didn't really mind. he trusts harry enough to let him see his pieces by now, but he's never really asked _why._

 

"because they are gray and i am gray," louis answers softly. he puts down his paintbrush. "i throw them to the sea and hope infinity catches them."

 

_(and harry thinks louis is awfully vague but that's okay because louis is an artist and artists aren't meant to be understood.)_

 

harry walks over to louis and grabs his palette. he takes the paintbrush from louis' easel and swishes the pigments together in silence, his brows knitted. louis wants to ask what harry is doing-- _louis is very particular about who touches his things--_ but he doesn't and he just waits.

 

harry grabs louis' hand and paints his fingers in one long stroke. the cool liquid feels good against his skin; louis lets himself relax and allows harry to make him into art.

 

harry spends an hour on his face and arms. he works quietly and precisely and louis just watches, fascinated with harry himself. harry is bright and beautiful and louis thinks he's falling towards the sun.

 

_(ashes ashes, we all burn down.)_

"let me paint your chest," harry says quietly. he fumbles with the hem of louis' shirt. "please, louis."

 

this is so _not fair--_ harry is three inches from louis and he can't think straight when there are a pair of ice green irises staring at him like he's worth something. he doesn't really like his body but harry makes him feel all right. he makes him feel all right about a lot of things.

 

_(harry thinks louis is wonderful and louis thinks louis is not.)_

louis nods shyly.

 

harry gives him a soft smile and tugs his shirt over his head. he sighs to himself and traces the outline of louis' collarbone tattoo and _louis_ _really can't breathe._ the air is alive with electricity and the possibility and louis sees color for the first time in three years.

 

_(he sees the green of harry's eyes and the pink of his lips and the blush of his cheeks.)_

 

harry brings the brush up to his collarbones and louis' breath catches as the cool paint meets his skin. a gold streak is left in its path. a shimmering, lovely _gold_ streak.

 

harry doesn't stop and louis doesn't breathe and he doesn't know what he's doing--harry is dangerous and louis is vulnerable but this feels _good._ his touches against louis' skin are gentle and soft and louis wonders if his infinity is the ocean or right here with harry.

 

_(harryandlouis are infinity and nothing is empty time.)_

"now you're not gray," harry says quietly. "now will you keep your art? will you love yourself?"

 

harry leans in and touches louis' face gently, _oh so gently._ he's hovering inches from louis' mouth--louis knows what's going to happen next, and he wants to stop, he wants to pull away before he flies straight into catastrophe because that's what beautiful boys are--

 

harry kisses louis. he kisses louis so so softly. he kisses louis with emotion, like he's more than a failure of an artist who sees nothing but gray. he kisses louis like he's a palette of the most beautiful colors.

 

and louis kisses him back.

 

_(ashes ashes, we all burn down.)_

 -

 

it's winter and things are different.

 

louis is a little less sad, he thinks. maybe he's a little less gray too.

 

_(harry bleeds colors and louis is bound to get stained.)_

there are a lot of cold evenings spent curled together in front of louis' fireplace. harry envelops louis in his large arms and presses his lips to louis' sweet-smelling hair and all the while thinks it's sad how someone as lovely as louis is so trapped in a poisoned mind.

 

_(he takes care of louis because louis cannot take care of himself.)_

there will be days where harry finds louis curled in a ball, unwilling to move or eat or talk in general. his grey-blue eyes are empty and endless and harry wonders what louis sees in himself that makes him this way. louis is beautiful and sad and harry wants to fix that, he really does.

 

_(but harry isn't a professional and louis doesn't want to be helped.)_

harry holds him and kisses his forehead and tells him he's lovely and _hopes_ it's enough to keep louis from the darker side of his mind. he hopes it's enough to keep louis here because harry is selfish and he _needs_ louis, he really does, but louis doesn't believe him.

 

_(louis hears but he doesn't listen. louis watches but he doesn't see.)_

_(he doesn't see harry loves him.)_

 

there are good days too.

 

louis will be smiling and laughing and harry feels like he's floating because louis is so _glorious._ he wishes he could freeze time and keep louis in this bright bubble of present to stop him from sinking down into the depths of the past, but he's just one man with a love for another man who can't find his way through the dark.

 

_(how harry wishes he could be louis' light.)_

_-_

"harry _,_ do you ever want to be remembered?" louis says quietly one night. "do you want to die and leave a legacy?"

 

harry considers this for a minute. he sighs and runs his hands through his hair.

 

"i think everyone wants to be remembered," harry starts slowly. "but there are different ways to be remembered. if i changed one person's life before i left, then i've made a difference and they'll carry my name on."

 

"but one person isn't enough," louis cuts in. "your legacy dies with them, and then you're forgotten. don't you want to be remembered by the world?"

 

harry laughs, but not the mocking, harsh kind. it's gentle and sweet.

 

"we aren't made to withstand history, louis," harry says softly. "we are mortal."

 

"names are immortal, harry!" louis says loudly, clearly frustrated. he gets up and starts pacing. "names are immortal and legacies are immortal! our time here is meant to be spent creating a legacy to be passed down. _we are meant to be unforgettable!"_

_(harry thinks louis was meant to be unforgettable.)_

"louis, you're missing the point," harry says. "what if socrates' parents were the ones who founded the ideas of his philosophy through the way they raised him? their influence could be the reason he's remembered. they put their legacy in him."

 

louis is clearly agitated. he stares at harry then at his feet then at the art hanging on his walls. he stares at the ocean, at infinity, and then back at the floor.

 

he leaves the room and harry doesn't follow him.

 

_(they don't discuss the topic again.)_

_-_

"i love you louis."

 

harry crawls into bed and wraps his arms around louis' waist and buries his nose into the crook of louis' neck. he inhales the scent, like saltwater and paint and a little bit of vanilla and harry sighs.

 

_(he repeats the phrase.)_

 

louis' body tightens and his breaths are uneven and shallow. he tries to make the connection between what his ears are hearing and what harry just said, but all he can make out is distant fuzz. louis feels harry, louis sees harry, louis knows harry, but he doesn't _understand_ harry. louis is an artist who knows nothing but failure and harry is a bright-eyed boy with a legacy of gold.

 

the silence stretches on and harry waits for louis to say something-- _anything--_ but he doesn't and harry really doesn't know what he was expecting.

 

he kisses louis all the same, and louis responds with a guilty cloud hanging over his head and they go to sleep, that's that.

 

_(except it isn't because louis loves harry too.)_

-     

 

there were days when louis remembers being happy. he wasn't bright yellow like harry--maybe like butter yellow-- _but still._ he woke up and smiled and laughed and hung out with zayn and niall and took his sisters out to ice cream. life then was a blur of warm sun and happy memories.

 

_(then louis fell hard and long and couldn't find his way back up.)_

nearly three years later--after struggling against the threatening _gray gray gray_ louis thinks he sees dusts of pink on the horizon. things aren't  perfect but they're better and louis feels so _relieved_ he wants to laugh and cry at the same time.

 

_(of course, he knows harry is the reason.)_

harry found him on the beach nearly six months ago and took it upon himself to make sure louis was all right. harry was the only one who genuinely cared, he's still the one who cares, and louis wonders what he did to deserve someone like harry.

 

_(louis doesn't remember much about that day--he just remembers seeing gray and feeling gray and thinking the only way to fix it was through a bottle of colorful pills.)_

 

he's okay now, he thinks. he's better.

 

_(because harry made him that way.)_

 

harry never gives up on louis, even when he's in a black mood and just wants to sleep. he's there to kiss louis when he wakes up and there to kiss louis when he falls asleep. he's there to hold louis when he wants to succumb to the _gray gray gray_ and he's there to laugh with louis when he feels yellow and bright and alive. he's there to love louis' art and hang it on his walls instead of throwing it to the sea, to infinity, and louis knows he absolutely _does_ love harry.

 

_(he loves the feeling of the sun.)_

  _(ashes ashes, we all burn down.)_

-

 

"harry," louis says one night. they're laying on the beach, watching the stars streak across the clean black sky. they hang like water droplets on a glass in the summer; shimmering, bright bodies of warmth and promise. _"harry."_

"yeah?" harry answers. his eyes look like the stars themselves have fallen earthbound and landed in his irises. another thing louis thinks is extraordinary about harry.

 

_(falling in love with the bright-eyed boys.)_

_"_ i used to think my infinity was the sea," louis starts slowly. "i thought my infinity was the sea because the sea looks like it never ends. the sea is deep and wide and impressive and unfathomable."

 

"yeah?" harry urges him on gently. he's looking at louis with interest.

 

"but i realized the other day that infinity is spending life with people who make time seem like forever," louis continues, eyes fixed on the stars. "infinity isn't concrete. infinity is what we make it."

 

"i think you're right, louis," harry muses. "makes sense to me."

 

there's a pause in which the only sound between them is the sea crashing into the rocks of the shore. it's soothing and peaceful and so _finite--_ the sea isn't forever. louis isn't forever. louis' legacy isn't forever. but whatever he feels with the boy next to him-- _that's his true legacy._

 

"harry," louis says slowly. he doesn't wait for an answer. "i think you may be my infinity."

 

_(the sea is finite and so are louisandharry but nothing is empty time.)_

_-_

louis sees the world in brilliant reds and golds and silvers.

 

 _(he feels_ _reds, he sees gold, he breathes silver.)_

 

louis loves harry.

 

_(he loves harry, and harry is lovely and bright and harry loves him.)_

 

louis is going to be okay.

 

_(he is full of life like the murals he paints.)_

 

louis is never alone.

 

_(he has a boy with eyes brighter than the stars.)_

louis is never afraid.

 

_(he will not be forgotten.)_

louis tomlinson is an artist. he is an artist living in a world of color with a boy like the sun.

 

_(ashes ashes, we all burn down.)_

 


End file.
